


Miss Murder

by covertCalligrapher



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertCalligrapher/pseuds/covertCalligrapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terezi Pyrope spends her days watching conscripts and her nights worrying for the love-locked Threshcutioner, for whom the drones will be marching on soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss Murder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [argentConflagration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentConflagration/gifts).



> happy birthday alexa!

Perhaps loving a boy with banned blood wouldn't be appealing to most. Then again, perhaps devoting yourself to the girl with suns for eyes isn't a glamorous choice either. You seem to make do, however, with your fire-branded eyes and smart smile. Your candy sweet boy, brightest red _you'd ever seen,_ makes do with you too. If not for you and your creative, voracious even, lust for justice, he'd surely be another amongst the list of kids killed before their time. You take care to hold this for him. He observes and learns from you how to stay in your grasp.

 

Sometimes he'll watch you when you deal with the fresh bloods. New kids ready to give up their caste for the title of Legislacerator to the Empire, they need to be put in their place. Soft and vulnerable, you know that the weak ones won't make it. Usually the reds and browns die from exhaustion or age before the end of their training.

 

You're surprised your boy has made it this far.

 

Militant positions are pockets where blood doesn't matter. They rely on sharp and devoted students, quick studies who know better and the rest get cut. The Empire you hold onto so fiercely is a police state, most places in society filling a slot in the universe's defense. This existence or the next, everything everyone does is for themselves and for their country.

 

As you've been fed since you were small. As you've seen and heard and been conditioned to know for your life. Since you'd lost your eyes, since you'd learned of the Blood Boy, his candy red cherries beating beneath a uniform gray bag.

 

You're currently dealing with conscripts. They shuffle about, doing their own tasks so that they can attain the day when they are finally called “Legislacerator.” Most, if not all, hold the rank of Neophyte now, and it will be sweeps before they become fully inducted.

 

You wouldn't know though, as you'd managed to ascend quite early due to political connections to a certain prospective Grand Highblood and sheer gall. 10 sweeps old, many your age are still 2 sweeps away from full induction. You, however, have been fully decorated since your Ascension Day.

 

You take a long breath through your mouth and see how one conscript has misstepped and accidentally run their sparring partner through. The stench of thick blue reeks and your nostrils fill with the acrid taste. The highblood lays on the ground, trying to staunch the flow of blueberry and copper.

 

You frown and walk over to her, pull her up from the ground and send her to the medical block of the training wing. It would serve her well to make _haste_ , lest she lose too much blood and pass out. She scurries off without a look back and the child who speared her shakes in their boots. Unluckily for them, they are a lowblood, red, and will most likely be ejected from the program for injuring not only their sparring partner, but someone so high in rank who has yet to renounce caste.

 

You tell her you're going to write a recommendation for her to stay in the program, but it doesn't look good. You dismiss her to her private block for the day and she sulks. You say she's lucky she isn't going to get culled.

 

She leaves and you sigh, continuing to watch the _children_ as they attempt to hit each other without resulting in an injury. By the end of this session, you're thinking back to Karkat again. You think to how the drones will be coming for you soon, and then him. It makes you smile and grip your cane tighter to think about, the game that the compulsion for procreation evokes in your society depraved and wonderful.

 

Perhaps that's why Karkat seeks you out after the last conscript has fled the training scene in favour of, perhaps, the soporific serving block of the ship.

 

You're hanging rapiers back up when you taste him come up behind you. He sticks his head around the side of the storage room door before walking fully in and softly shutting the door. You grin voraciously as he wraps his arms around your waist from behind.

 

His armor pokes you uncomfortably as he sets his chin on your shoulders. “What do _you_ want?” you ask, still grinning with a face-splitting smile.

 

He rubs his nose into your shoulder, the scent of his shifting hair drifting to your face. You take a deep breathe through your nose, inhaling the smell of him and the scene around you. The room is filled with sharp objects and is dark save for the bare bulb illuminating the gleaming surfaces of the training equipment. The room is large, but there is little available space due to the amount of items in it.

 

“You're going to get called on soon, you know,” he mutters, his breath lowblood-warm.

 

“Well, I have my quadrants filled!” you say, your hands holding his holding you.

 

He scoffs into your shirt. “Quadrants are overrated and oppressive.”

 

Your grin is still thick and hungry. “This is coming from the kid who was choking to fill any quadrant.”

 

You feel him frown. Then he straightens up and spins your hips around so you're facing him. “Keep talking like that and your _other_ quadrant mates will find out how much you've muddied your love life,” he growls lowly, leaning forward and brushing his lips against yours.

 

You grip his shoulders with a light laugh, push him away from you a bit. He has you pinned between him and the boxes containing training supplies, and his hips are pressing sharply into yours. “All this from the man who has dragged me from the path of respectful romance and into his sordid world of matesprits who commune on piles meant for relations of the white kind; a man who would rather his kismesis be his own auspice!”

 

You taste his disapproval of your words and hear his lust for a relationship such as the one you'd described. “I don't exactly see you complaining.”

 

“Sollux would kill you if he knew you'd tried to solicit _me_ for pale problems.”

 

He blows air at your face, gray ash and cherries and bright troll orange building an atmosphere around your head; talk of your moirail always making him testy. He then proceeds to throw a large groan and lean his forehead on yours.

 

You decide that your pusher beats a mix of red and white for him currently, an ugly pink, and bring your hands up to hold his face. You hush him and assure him that it's alright, it's alright, you don't quite know what your love for him is either, but matesprit is the easiest thing to call it. Hush, you love all your quadrant-fillers and even _they_ know Karkat's different.

 

He sighs and takes your words of muddled pity, pink and sweet like sugar. You kiss him, and he seems to be reminded why he sought you out in the first place. He takes hungrily from you and you know it's almost time for the drones to call on him; you can tell he knows it is too. He feels afraid, not for his life, but for his other quadrants, pale happening to be the only other one he can manage to fill.

 

You let out a noise of surprise when his hips jump into you with stuttering, jerking movements. A hand comes and pulls your hips against his as he tugs on your lip and it feels as if he's even further in a cloud of lust than usual. He pushes his groans through your ears and pulls your own from your throat. A shiver runs through your bones when his hands slip and press right where your legs come together.

 

The fabric of your uniform is thick and it doesn't allow for much relief of the pressure Karkat has certainly become expert at building in you. You grind against the hand he keeps there as his other works on shedding your uniform. You preoccupy the part of your brain that isn't consumed by the hazy need to jerk your hips with shedding his armor. It's hard and comes off in shells and he eventually needs to leave you propped up on the boxes to take some of the straps off.

 

You can taste the pheromones in the air and hear the way the room is too thick to breathe. You take a shuddering gasp and try to focus on something other than the intense need to make the room _less_ on fire than it already was. Your uniform hangs off your waist, your top completely exposed. You hear the last piece of metal and muffled cloth hit the floor and when he comes back to you he's stark naked.

 

You frown as he yanks off the last of your clothes. It's never any fun when he doesn't let you undress him.

 

However, the thoughts of discontent are soon pushed out of your mind as he presses into you without warning. It doesn't hurt and you'd underestimated how badly you both needed this. You scream out his name, your hands trying to find purchase on anything: the boxes beneath you, his horns, his shoulders, something to keep you grounded so you don't just drift away.

 

Your head is back and you're breathing in the thick air with a consistency more akin to thin oil than air. It leaves you unable to think past the steady grind of your hips and soon you feel him stuttering in his hard, steady pace, he's almost done. You whine, you're not ready yet and he seems to get this from your complaint. He brings his hand to where the two of you meet and presses a finger inside, rubbing hard against the bundle of nerves he finds there.

 

Your already smokey impression of the world swirls into an incomprehensible mess as you scream noises you know you can't hear. Pretty soon you come before him and he's the only thing you can feel; him pressing vacillating love into your neck, his hands holding you through thing, his arms around you, just trying to press you closer, his warm, fire-filled body radiating out to you and melting your skeletons together.

 

He follows you not long after.

 

You lay slumped in the dark, warmer-than-before supply room together, Karkat seeming to decide whether or not the two of you should get cleans up and leave or stay there and be found by conscripts tomorrow. He seems to settle for the embarrassment of being found; truly only _being_ an embarrassment as you're almost positive all your genetic material has mixed into a dusky purple, the smell of indigo salt-wood smoke and wine grapes surrounding the two of you.

 

You eventually fall asleep without a recuperacoon, and don't think you'll be pricked with nightmares; sleeping soundly isn't a worry after being with Karkat like this.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah this was fun to write


End file.
